


Attempts at Earning Love

by PontifexxMaximus (WibblyWobbly_TimeyWimey)



Series: Beau Week 2019 [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Beau Week 2019, Beau's shitty parents, Beaus childhood, Childhood, F/F, Found Family, Identity, Mollymauk lives because I get to decide, Needles, SLIGHT SPOILERS for Beau's homelife, Swearing, Teen Angst, angsty in the beginning but real fucking fluffy at the end, beaujester, childhood & youth, definitely some gay some wlw if you will some lesbián, dubious piercing hygiene, fistfights because its a beau fic, homophobia reference if you REALLY squint, jestergard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 15:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18573973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WibblyWobbly_TimeyWimey/pseuds/PontifexxMaximus
Summary: For Beau Week 2019, prompt 1: Childhood & YouthThe first time Beau shaves her undercut, and the first time her girlfriend does it for her.





	Attempts at Earning Love

Beauregard could see herself in the mirror. Messy hair, messy face, the beginning of yet another black eye blooming quietly against her dark skin. Oh, they were gonna be so pissed. Important business-partners were coming over for dinner/business/fake niceties exchanged over tea/more stupid bullshit, and her parents had been clear; Beauregard, you’re gonna wear a nice dress, you’re gonna put on makeup, and you’re gonna entertain their son, but in a dignified way. What was that even, ‘dignified’ entertainment? Play him a tune on the piano? Cite history at him? She had a feeling that a fellow 15-year-old would not exactly find that entertaining. Not that she cared, but… It had all been so bad lately, and she was actually planning on getting this _one_ evening right, for once not fucking it up. Just once. But now she had a black eye and scrapes on her legs, and perhaps even a broken nose, maybe.

She could feel her face heating, see her cheeks darkening in the mirror, thinking of the events of the day. She really had planned on being nice today, on being proper. She had gotten to the academy on time, and her clothes looked okay at least, and the lectures really _were_ interesting, when she stopped fantasizing about anything other than lectures and really listened. The fight had not been the plan, but then again, they rarely were. It was like that shit just happened to her. Was she really so unpleasant, so abrasive, that people couldn’t help hitting her? Well, she supposed she _did_ technically start some of those fights, but that was only when people were asking for it, really.

This fight had been different though. Emy had been… particularly distracting that day. The small touch when Beau lend her a pencil. The shy, little smile she’d been sending Beauregard all day. This time, Beauregard really hadn’t meant to throw a punch, it was just sort of habit. She’d been so surprised by Emy _kissing her_. Nobody _kissed_ Beauregard. They’d yell at her, or punch her, or pull her hair, but nobody kissed her, she wasn’t… kissable. She’d quite honestly been expecting a headbutt when Emy leaned in, not a kiss, so she barely had time to register Emy’s soft lips on hers, the brief butterflies, before she’d… Well, she’d straight up decked Emy, who wasn’t by any means the _nicest_ of girls, so they just sort of ended up having a giant fistfight instead of kissing, which Beauregard could admit, in the quiet solitude of the washroom, was something she’d much rather have done. The fight was fun, sure, albeit a bit confusing. Emy’s crooked smile, her mean left hook, that way she’d kept her tongue cheekily between her teeth for a few seconds, when they’d both heard that _crack_ from Beauregard’s nose. Beauregard had learned long ago, that fights could be just as intimate as a talk or a kiss, you just had to know how to do it right. So, she had gotten scared because the pretty girl had kissed her, and she ended up fist fighting her? If her parents heard (and if it had been a boy, because that was a whole other situation), she knew what they’d say. Typic Beauregard. So Crass. Class-less. Not proper. Of course, Beauregard, of everyone, would hit someone for kissing her.

She expected the tears before she felt them, quickly drying the offending moisture from her chin. Lame. So _lame_. Crying in the bathroom because your parents don’t like you, what a fucking cliché. How fucking _expected_. She was so tired. So tried. So tired of being nice, and proper, and a fuck-up and predictable. Of crying and screaming and mending broken dresses. Of always trying and never quite _getting there_. She had been trying. She had been trying for 15 years. She’d tried to be what they wanted. She’d tried, and tried, and tried, and she had the bruises to prove it. She was done with the expected. Done desperately trying to live up to expectations. What if she didn’t? What if she really gave up? Once and for all. No more trying. No more nice dresses, badly applied makeup and fake manners. No more “yes sir”, no more desperately trying to find the right fork, no more dancing with boring guys at big balls, no more fake smiles and obedience, so much fucking obedience.

She had tried. She really _had_ tried. Again, and again, and again, and it didn’t work, it had never worked. Why should she keep on trying?

And then a thought stood clear as daylight.

She was gonna leave some day. She didn’t know when or how, but she knew that one day she was gonna leave and she’d never come back. It felt like such a weird realization to have at 15. What did she know about the world? And yet, she could feel it, sure in her bones. She was gonna leave this family behind. She was never going to fit in, and she was never, ever gonna be able to be what her parents wanted, because what they wanted was a boy, and that was the one thing she _couldn’t_ be. She could wear nice dresses, and practice good manners, but she’d never, ever be a boy, and ultimately, she knew that all of the rest? That was never gonna be enough for them. She could be the best damn lady the Empire had ever seen, and it still would never, ever be enough. What was the point of fighting for a love that would never come?

But not yet. She had to endure it a few more years. Find some way to gather money, get some connections, get a plan. But one day, she’d leave.

Until then? Of everything, there was one thing she was _really_ good at. They thought she was a fuck-up? They hadn’t seen anything yet. She’d show them. Her mind flashed back to one of the women she’d seen in town a few times, secretly wishing that she could be that cool when she grew up. She left the washroom, went to her sparse bedroom and got a needle from her mending kit, bringing a candle with her back to the washroom. She hooked the lock on the door and went digging in the cabinet until she found what she was looking for. She stared back at herself in the mirror, eyes puffy both from not-crying and from the punching. Her stupid, pretty, long, curly brown hair, thinking about all of the stupid intricate up-dos her mother always forced her into, and then chiding her when her hair got loose an hour later, as if she could control every single strand of hair on her head. Well. She supposed there was another way to control her hair. She found a band, sectioned off the top half, just like she had seen that one woman do. She grabbed a fistful of hanging hair, pausing for a second, but then remembered her parents’ chidings. Remembered all of the yelling, all of the plates thrown on the floor, all of the dresses she’d ‘ruined’, all of the times she just wanted to play and be a kid, but being stopped every time, because “you’re a grown Lady now, Beauregard, Ladies do not play childish games”. She began sawing away at her hair, the knife having been made more for shaving than cutting long hair, but it would do. It wasn’t gonna be long for very much longer anyway. The tears stopped as she worked through the methodic work of sawing off her hair, so it was short enough to shave it. Clumsy, unpracticed hands trying to replicate the movements she’d seen her father do when she was younger, and they hadn’t payed as much attention to where she was. It was rough work with more than one scratch of her scalp, but she was used to pain and blood anyway.

She put the knife down, stepped back, running her hands over the fussy hair of her undercut. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t pretty at all. It was uneven, unruly, it was a mess. It was Beauregard – no, it was Beau. She would like to see her mother try to turn this into something prim and proper. It was raw in a way that was entirely Beau, and she didn’t even really know who Beau was yet.

She wasn’t done. She’d cut her hair, but it wasn’t enough, she needed more. Something that was Beau, whoever this Beau was. Something harsher than the frilly dresses, something raw. Besides, piercings looked pretty cool, and, her teenager brain rationalized, there was something undoubtedly cool about giving yourself a piercing.

She picked up the needle, sterilizing it in the flame from the candle. She held out the skin around her eyebrow, tongue sticking out in concentration, didn’t count to three, and punched the needle through her skin, closing her mouth around a silent scream. The pain was nothing compared to a proper gut punch anyway, and she’d had quite a few of those in her time. Holding the needle in place with one hand, her other hand went fumbling for the little stud in her ear, picking it out and quickly replacing the needle with the earring. It looked awkward, and it was definitely going to get infected, but she didn’t care. She could buy a proper piercing piece to replace it with. The pain, the look, and the statement was the point. Looking back into the mirror, she didn’t see Beauregard, terrible Lady extraordinaire, she didn’t see unbrushed hair, ruined makeup, things to fix. Looking back at her was a glimpse of this Beau, whoever she was, this future she could barely taste, just out of reach, too far away to truly touch, but it was _her_ future, not her parents’ future. Her life belonged to her, and she was gonna act like it, consequences be damned.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, so basically, you just angle the knife against the way of the hairs and just go wild,” Beau smiles up at her girlfriend. Jester is worrying her lower lip between her teeth, holding the knife in unsure hands, brows knit closely together in concentration.

“What if I do it badly, though. What if it turns out ugly, Beau, I don’t want to give you ugly hair,” she says, fingers brushing lightly over the long fuss of Beau’s undercut.

“Jessie, it’s hair. Do I look like someone who cares about uneven hair? It’s fine, I’ll just look even more badass,” Beau watches Jester’s lips turning up at the corners, the crease between her brows disappearing, a light giggle escaping her. Beau thinks that maybe, maybe Jester is an angel. It wouldn’t be that farfetched, really.

“I guess you’re right. And technically, hair grows really quickly, technically,” Jester grabs the knife more surely in her hands, experimentally letting it glide over a few hairs. “Oh, well, this isn’t really that hard at all. It’s sort of like painting, sort of, but not really”. Jester stops rambling, a blush burning across her cheeks at the twinkle in Beau’s eyes. She returns her focus to the knife, and, humming a small melody she makes quick work of the undercut. Beau is silent, enjoying the quiet moment with her girlfriend. Some (Molly) might say she never shuts up, but that’s not true, not really. Some things are best enjoyed in silence, such as Jester’s soft hands, brushing away stray hairs, making sure she gets a nice and close shave.

It’s over far too soon as Jester steps back and wipes the knife with a happy “taadaa”. Beau turns back to the mirror, examining her fresh undercut. She brings a hand to her side, feeling the fussy hair, remembering a time that seemed so far away. Well, it had been almost 10 years, to be fair. Back then she hadn’t imagined that she’d still be sporting the same hairdo 10 years later. Back then, it was mostly a reaction to circumstances she couldn’t change. But 15-year-old Beau had been onto something – and hey, it was a super badass haircut.

She stood, turning around to face her girlfriend. “Well… Is it okay?” Jester asks, cheery voice cloaking her insecurities.

“Jester, it is downright terrible…” Jester’s face falls for a moment, “… terribly amazing,” Beau continues, grinning at Jester and ruffling her hair. The sound of Jester’s laugh is sweet music in her ears, and when Jester hides her face in Beau’s neck, and then breaks away shortly to place a kiss to her cheek, sweet as candy, and Beau thinks that she’s so happy she might actually die, her heart so impossibly full.

“Come ooon,” Jester drawls, as she steps away, taking Beau’s hand and dragging her out of the washroom, knife and clean-up forgotten, “let’s show the others my masterpiece!”.

Beau lets herself be dragged back to the main room of the inn, getting surprisingly used to her impatient girlfriend dragging her everywhere.

 

“The shave looks good, Beauregard,” Caleb says right away, barely glancing away from his book, ever-perceptive. The name doesn’t sting as it did once, because Beauregard no longer means what her parents intended, Beauregard is all her own (and maybe Jesters, a little bit).

“Uff, sharp work Jester! I might even let you borrow my sword next time,” Yasha comments, grinning up at her friends and patting the greatsword next to her. Beau thinks that that might not be the best idea; Jester thinks that it’s a wonderful idea.

The entire group is looking at them now, Jester making silly poses around Beau, “showcasing” her handywork, Beau standing with her arms crossed, not even bothering to hide her fond smile.

“Oh yea, that’s nice,” Cadeuceus comments, “Looks mighty fine, Beau”, Fjord adds, “I’m surprised you didn’t grab the opportunity and carve a dick in the back!”, that one is from Nott and results in Beau’s hand flying quickly up to touch the back of her head, but her trickster girlfriend spared her. This time.

Molly winks at Jester, “Oh, I have so many ideas for future designs, Jester,” and the two tieflings grin conspiratorially at each other. It’s a little bit worrying.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough compliments, let’s get some fucking ale,” Beau grumbles, but her smile is wide and happy (and ‘not unsettling at all, Fjord, I’m allowed to be fucking happy’, she thinks), and she sits down as the inn-keeper arrives with glasses of ale for the table, some milk for Jester and some juice for Caduceus. They’d been at the inn for a few days, and the inn-keeper is very observant; it is nice, staying still for a while, but Beau knows they aren’t gonna stay. That isn’t the way of The Mighty Nein. There are adventures to be had, places to explore, people to help (maybe), and plans to fuck up. Because being a fuck-up doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. Beau looks at her friends, her family, and she feels achingly fond. Jester’s head is on her shoulder, the most perfect girlfriend Beau could ever have imagined; silly, and a bit weird, and so, so full of love. A perfect bundle of happiness, who understands Beau more than people might think at first glance.

Her family, a ragtag team of weirdos, colorful and loud. She might have left her parent’s house, but she has found her home.

**Author's Note:**

> I uh, haven't written proper fanfiction since like 2014, so bear with me. Idk if this is any good at all, but I saw Beau Week on twitter and had this thought of the first time Beau shaved her undercut, and I can't draw so... Take this I guess. Had to sneak in some Jestergard ofc <3 I also don't have a beta and English is my second language so I apologize for mistakes.  
> Hope y'all enjoy anyway! I would say you can come yell at me on twitter, but I think I'm too embarrased of my writing to link my twitter ;) I'll respond to comments though!
> 
> Title is from the song [Stupid Deep by Jon Bellion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EtlZV2EaZBQ) which is SUCH a Beau song, please listen to it ("What if who I hoped to be was always me, and the love I fought to feel was always free. What if all the things I've done, were attempts at earning love").
> 
> (Btw I could really use some feedback on whether I should paragraph more? I honestly haven't written a long thing in English for a WHILE, and English grammar is different.) 
> 
> If y'all want to join Beau Week 2019 they have a twitter where they link to prompts and stuff, it's fun, do it!


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